The President stops, his face waxen, leaning for a moment on Bornand’s arm.
All things considered, it is certain that it would be better for the Parisian press to talk about your contacts with Iran rather than this unfortunate plane crash.’
This was the green light he’d been waiting for.
Bornand drops into the Élysée unit headquarters and finds only two young women at their desks. The previous day’s telephone taps have been transcribed, and they’ll be sorted and classified before being passed on, as every day, to the President’s secretariat. Bornand sits down for a moment and accepts a coffee, with two sugars, asks how their children are and complains about the miserable weather. There’s snow on the way. He flicks through the files rapidly. It’s one of life’s small pleasures that Bornand regularly enjoys: lifting the lid of the hive and watching the bees make honey. But today he knows what he’s looking for and he hasn’t got time to hang around: he’s after all yesterday’s calls involving Bestégui, code name: the Basque. At least ten made to the newspaper’s office. Various appointments. Interesting, one with the General Secretary of the Paris Mayor’s office. Well, well. Covering his rear with a view to the upcoming elections? His daughter has an ear infection. Restoux won’t file his article in time, it will have to be held over until the following week. A furious tantrum ensues. Bestégui’s writing a substitute under a new pseudonym (Rancourt, make a note, just in case). And lastly, someone called Chardon announces he has a dynamite dossier on a plane crammed with French missiles heading for Iran, which vanished in mid-flight yesterday over Turkey. The Basque warily advises him to be more discreet on the telephone and agrees to meet him that evening at seven p.m.
That was it.
Bornand crosses the street and climbs the steps of the Élysée. His office is a comfortable little room under the eaves, with two windows looking out over the rooftops. Plenty of calm and light. Huge mahogany cupboards lining two walls, kept permanently locked, good armchairs, a few nineteenth-century English engravings depicting hunting scenes with hounds, green carpet and curtains. And in the centre of the room, an English pedestal desk, with a tan leather top. Sitting on it are a notepad, a crystal tumbler filled with pens and felt-tips, and a coloured glass art deco lamp.
Fernandez is waiting for him. A cop Bornand first met ten years ago on the racecourses, when he was working in Intelligence for the Racing and Gambling division. Very young, fairly tall, broad shoulders and flat stomach; short, dark hair, swarthy complexion, a somewhat loud taste in clothes, flashy gold bracelet watch and a signet ring on his middle left finger, tight trousers and colourful shirts. Good-looking guy, in a way, and very keen on easy, good-looking girls: sharing women had soon created a bond between them. Intelligent: it didn’t take him long to understand how to network in racing circles, and who the guys with real power are. Enterprising: always looking to make a deal, or a financially useful social contact. And left-wing, in other words, he liked Bornand and trusted him when he was still a long way from power. So when Bornand arrived at the Élysée, he had him transferred from Intelligence to his personal security, which opened up new career prospects for Fernandez and confirmed he had made the right political choices. A bit too much of a lout to be truly integrated into the inner family circle, but a distant cousin for whom Bornand feels a certain fondness.
‘I’ve got a job for you, my friend.’
Bornand opens the notebook, selects a green felt-tip and begins to draw complicated squiggles with application, his long, slender hands never still. A silence, before he continues:
‘A journalist has approached Bestégui offering to sell him some strictly confidential information about our contacts with Iran and our dealings to secure the hostages’ release, which include arms deliveries. We’ve already talked about this, haven’t we?’ Fernandez nods. ‘Have you heard of a guy called Chardon?’
‘Never.’
Bornand slowly jots down a few words, looking distracted, then looks up.
‘Bestégui seems to know him though. If this makes the headlines, the Iranians will break off talks. We have to identify the people behind this Chardon guy and shut them up. And to do that, I’m relying on you. If he’s mixed up in this sort of business, Intelligence must have him on file. You’re going to ask them for me. Then, depending on what they come up with, you’re going to find this Chardon, try and glean anything that might shed light on what’s in his dossier and who his sources are. You can call me here, or at the Carré des Feuillants at lunchtime.’ He rubs the palm of his left hand which is still giving him shooting pains. ‘Be smart, Fernandez. We need results.’
Once Fernandez has left, Bornand sets to work.
The first thing is to find suppliers with stocks of missiles available, preferably overseas. I’ll check out Meister in Hamburg. If news of the scandal breaks after the arrival of a new delivery to Tehran, we’ll come out of it relatively unscathed. Then, make amends where possible. And don’t expect any help from government departments on that front, turn to the family first. A basic rule of self-preservation. First of all, Pontault, one of the Defence minister’s staff. A gendarme. A friend of some of the men in the unit. His father, also a gendarme, ended his career as head of security at Bornand’s father-in-law’s firm. He’s loyal. He takes it upon himself to remind all concerned that the missiles sent to Iran had been purchased from the French army, following all the correct procedures. Clearly the military wouldn’t like their financial transactions and methods to become public knowledge. Nor would the politicians at the Ministry, who took their cut from the deal. So, defence secrets all the way down the line. Pontault acts as guarantor. Covered on that front. Bornand notes the date, time and content of the telephone call.
Distraction: an appointment with an Israeli agent he met in Washington and who’s passing through Paris on his way back from a trip to Côte-d’Ivoire. Not long to go before the Franco-African summit opens. Exchange of information. The Côte-d’Ivoire recognises the State of Israel and is playing a growing role in arms smuggling to South Africa. A link between the two? In any case, large quantities of arms are currently circulating in the region. Always good to know in case Hamburg doesn’t respond.
Bornand writes a summary of the conversation for the President, expurgated of all reference to arms deals, since he doesn’t want to know.
It’s time to meet Bestégui at the restaurant. On the way, a detour via the couturier’s window where the President paused this morning. He buys a vicuña scarf and asks the pretty brunette sales assistant to take it to the Élysée that afternoon. The President will appreciate it.
Extract from Chardon’s intelligence service record:
Chardon, Jean-Claude. Born 1953, in Vincennes, Val-de-Marne, where his father ran a hardware shop. Baccalaureate in literature, 1973. Then joined the marine infantry, served for five years in Gabon and Côte-d’Ivoire. Returned in 1978 as a lieutenant. In 1980, he was tried and convicted for living off immoral earnings. He then reinvented himself as a journalist, freelancing for France-Dimanche and Ici Paris under various pseudonyms (the most frequent: Franck Alastair, Teddy Boual, Jean Georges) mainly writing gossip columns about the private lives of showbiz celebrities and the jet set. Numerous known liaisons with call girls and models who act as informers. Since the immoral earnings case in 1980, no further complaints have been lodged against him. He currently resides at 38 rue Philippe-Hecht, Paris 19, in a house which he owns.
A rather brief record. It is highly likely that he must be earning a bit on the side from blackmail. But what the hell’s he doing mixed up in an arms deal? At least it’s a starting point.
Fernandez starts tailing Chardon when he leaves home at 11.47 a.m. Brown corduroy trousers, heavy work boots, khaki parka, unremarkable features and shaggy, lifeless chestnut hair. Fernandez feels good-looking in comparison. Some fifty metres further on, Chardon turns into avenue Mathurin-Moreau, walks down to the metro at Colonel-Fabien, and goes into the Brasserie des Sports, Fernandez har
d on his heels. It is a busy bar adjacent to a large restaurant with around forty tables, separated by curtains of green foliage, a buzz of voices, mainly regulars, but at this hour, still plenty of free tables. A waiter recognises Chardon and signals to him that someone is waiting for him at the back of the room. Fernandez follows him from a distance, then pauses and takes cover behind a line of bamboos. Chardon clearly knows the girl who’s waiting for him. It’s Katryn, a call girl whom Bornand regularly uses. Be prudent. Concealed by the plants, Fernandez manages to sit not far from them. They order two beef and carrot casseroles, and half a bottle of Côtes. Fernandez watches. They start a relaxed conversation about this and that. Coffee, bill, they go Dutch. Then they wander over for a chat with the woman owner at the till and go down to the basement via a staircase right next to the bar. After a few minutes Fernandez attempts to follow them. But the owner stops him: the toilets and telephone are at the back of the restaurant to the left. Downstairs there’s only a snooker table, and someone’s using it. Fernandez curses. That has to be where important matters are under discussion. He calls Bornand.
‘Katryn. Holy shit.’ Last night, with the Iranian. Familiarity … Perhaps they already know each other? She lays on the hero number, wheedles information out of him, she’s capable of it. It reaches Chardon … Possibly. But who are the pair of them working for? It’s a lead, Fernandez, don’t lose them.
Fernandez props himself up at the bar and orders a coffee and brandy.
In the basement is a narrow, windowless room with a snooker table in the centre. A suspended copper lamp shines a glaring light on the green baize, plunging everything around into darkness. Chardon sets up the balls in the triangle and removes the frame. He plays first, his head and torso in the circle of light. Too fast, too hard. The triangle shatters, a series of dry clacks, no score. He straightens up, steps back into the shadows and asks:
‘Have you got anything new for me?’
Katryn appears not to hear him. She stalks round the snooker table in her tight black jeans and black polo-neck sweater, her piercing eyes concentrating on the baize. Then she leans over, her black hair reflecting the light, the cue slides smoothly, one precise move and ball number four plops into a corner pocket. She plays again, too quickly, misses. She sighs and straightens up.
‘There was a piece of news, three weeks ago.’
‘You already told me.’
‘Are you playing?’
He plays almost randomly. Nothing.
Katryn begins a kind of dance around the baize. She moves slowly, leans half her body into the light, straightens up, starts walking again. Then makes up her mind, and lines up three shots in a row, talking all the while.
‘Three days ago, Lentin and his buddies came to train her.’
‘Lentin, the film producer?’
‘That’s him. He’s used to this type of operation at Mado’s.’
She leans forward, in silence. Then he continues:
‘Mado thinks that to be a true professional, you need experience. And she’s right about that. She tends to keep the training period down to a minimum in the interests of profitability.’
Chardon plays again, without success. Katryn, irritated, lightly taps the light shade with her cue, and the table oscillates between light and darkness.
‘You’re not concentrating hard enough, this is no game.’
‘So what about Lentin?’
‘This time, the training session degenerated. Lentin had come with two of his friends, novices at this game. I have no idea what happened, perhaps the girl had a romantic idea of the job, or she’d been conned into it from the start. Anyway, she ended up with a broken nose, a couple of broken ribs and her back slashed. Mado had a real job calming her down. She sent her back home to Périgueux.’ She slides a piece of paper folded into four onto the baize. ‘Her name and address. You can get her to tell you her story. I know, it’s risky. But she’s not even fifteen. Lentin will pay up to keep her quiet. And now, how about giving me a proper game of snooker?’
Bestégui is waiting for Bornand at the Carré des Feuillants. As always, Bornand’s running late. A hushed atmosphere. He slowly sips a pure malt whisky and relaxes. Their paths first crossed in 1960, when he wasn’t even twenty, during the Algerian War of Independence. A luxurious, uncluttered office. Him feeling lost, adrift, vulnerable. Bornand had the reputation of being a diabolical boss, a staunch supporter of decolonisation since the days of the Indochina war and with ongoing business relations with the Provisional Government of the Algerian Republic,5 and there were even rumours of arms sales to the National Liberation Front. There was something of the buccaneer about him, and he was elegant and well-spoken, with a penchant for irony. Yes, he was willing to support the French national student union’s demonstrations of solidarity with the Algerian students.
‘It’s high time you took some public initiatives. This war is bleeding our economy and boosting de Gaulle,’ Bornand had said.
He had signed a cheque in support, and gone on the student demonstration in October 1960 with a few of his friends, including François Mitterrand, who received a few blows from the cops’ batons witnessed by journalists. That’s not something you forget when you’re twenty.
Bestégui is still elegant, rich, self-confident and highly informed. Incidentally, how many articles has he penned, including some that have helped build Bornand’s reputation among Paris’s elite? A vast number … and a few dirty tricks too. You don’t get anything for nothing.
Bornand arrives at last and, without apologising, squeezes Bestégui’s arm warmly by way of a vague embrace, like a man in a hurry, then sits down. The head waiter hastens over. Bornand doesn’t open the menu.
‘I’ll have what you’re having. I trust your judgement.’
Bestégui orders a cream of chestnut soup and pheasant. Bornand eats without even noticing what’s on his plate. He has always considered a taste for fine cuisine as incongruous. He only frequents good or very good restaurants because in France they are the undeniable external trappings of wealth, as well as reliable indicators of the esteem in which one holds one’s guest. He is fully engrossed in what Bestégui is telling him.
‘I’ve been offered a dossier on a plane that crashed in Turkey yesterday morning. It was supposedly carrying French missiles destined for Iran.’ Bornand doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’d like to know what I might be getting myself into before going any further.’
Apparently he’s playing fair, which will make things easier.
‘You can hardly expect me to tell you that.’
Bestégui continues, ignoring Bornand’s reply: ‘In your view, is a deal like that possible, or probable, or am I likely to find myself walking into a trap?’
‘That’s certainly a possibility. Even a probability. Nearly all the world’s arms dealers are doing business with Iran. Embargos have never prevented arms from being sold, they just make them more expensive, and the profits are higher.’ He leans towards Bestégui, who is tucking into his food. ‘Which doesn’t necessarily rule out the possibility that it could be a sting.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Allow me to make a little detour via Lebanon where the French hostages are being held. Yesterday I was with a Lebanese friend who was telling me about the outbreak of the current war between the militias, one of the most violent that Beirut has seen – and Beirut has seen many such conflicts. An Amal militiaman, a Muslim and an ally of the Syrians, was driving at breakneck speed as usual, and at a crossroads he demolished the car of a Progressive Socialist Party militiaman, an ally of the Syrians and of Amal. Out came the guns, and war was declared between Amal and the PSP. There are countless French envoys supposedly negotiating the hostages’ release in Lebanon. Our lot are wandering around carrying suitcases stuffed with money and speaking on behalf of some minister or other, or the President, or a political party or whatever. You can just imagine. Lebanon’s in a state of chaos, about which they’re utterly clueless. The result: n
othing. Nothing. André, even after more than six months, and for one very simple reason: the key to the hostages isn’t in Lebanon, it’s in Tehran. And that plane may be part of a much bigger deal.’
‘Can you tell me any more about this hypothetical deal?’
‘Point number one: it could be a question of stopping arms deliveries to Iraq, or of balancing deliveries to both sides, which the cargo in question may or may not be a part of.’
‘If the plane is part of this deal, there are some people who have an interest in preventing it from reaching Tehran.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Not yet. But if we look at the people who want us to lose the election in March ’86, we should come up with the answer. And track them down. Fast.’
Bestégui attacks his chocolate and pistachio dessert.
‘Will I get to hear of it first?’
‘You won’t publish anything about the plane for the moment? And you’ll put off the competition?’
‘The ones who talk to me at least.’
‘You’re on.’
The meal’s over. Bestégui gives a deep sigh.
‘Fine, then I won’t rush into it.’
Connivance, compromise, always treading a fine line.
Katryn and Chardon part company in the street in front of the Brasserie des Sports. From a distance, Fernandez follows Katryn who walks very fast. She’s wearing a long cream-coloured waterproof duster coat. She enters an upmarket apartment building on avenue Mathurin-Moreau. Fernandez draws nearer. She punches in the entry code for the front door. Her fingers leave grey smudges on four figures and a letter. He tries various random combinations; on the third, the door opens. He goes inside. Katryn is no longer in the lobby. The lift is on its way down. To the cellar, or the garage. It stops at the lower basement level. Instinctively, Fernandez follows. I’ll think of something.
Affairs of State Page 3
